


The Ride of the Conqueror

by JosefAik



Series: The Conquest [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon the Conqueror - Freeform, Aegon's Conquest, Dragonstone, Harrenhal, House Durrandon, House Hoare, House Targaryen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26550778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: Before the War of the Five Kings, before the Blackfyre rebellions and the Dance of the Dragons, before even Jaehaerys I, the Old King, Westeros had no one king. Men ruled from their fortresses, but were yet to be united. House Targaryen, the last remnants of the dragonlords of yore, at upon the rocky outcrop of Dragonstone for generations, until one man decided to change that.Men called him the dragon, and they feared him. Upon the back of Balerion, the Black Dread, he could bring down death in a single heartbeat. This is the story of the wars that first forged him, forged in flame, force, fire, and in blood.
Relationships: Aegon I Targaryen & Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I) & Visenya Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aegon I Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aegon I Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I)/Visenya Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aegon I Targaryen/Visenya Targaryen, Orys Baratheon & Aegon I Targaryen
Series: The Conquest [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930798
Kudos: 10





	The Ride of the Conqueror

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, readers. Welcome to this new story of mine, focused upon the early days of Aegon's Conquest. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Just a quick bit of housekeeping, this story was inspired by a draft pilot episode I knocked up for a potential fancanon plot for a TV series adaptation of the Conquest, as part of the GoT spin-offs for HBO. I've tried to condense it down, and use the PoV narrative that GRRM prefers, but that means one thing. In this chapter, a couple of different scenes were 'adapted', so it might feel a bit jumpy. Not sure if that is the right word, but I thought I would give you some warning. It should be a one-off, with less of that happening in future chapters. 
> 
> Once again, hope you enjoy reading!

Dark clouds broiled in the sky above Dragonstone, the rocky island outcrop, home to dragons and flame, standing strong against the waves that crashed against its rocky shores and cliffs. Lightning lit the sky, and thunder crashed down upon them all, as the gods beat their hammers of war, the sparks of the forges raining down below. The dragon watched it all, stood atop his island, the wind whipping through his cloak, and his hair sodden from rain, yet he did not move, stood as still as the stone dragons that covered his castle. Yet he was no grotesque, frozen in stone, but a dragon, alert, at attention, watching and waiting. 

His mind was not on the storm that threw itself at him, nor the waves that rose up the sides of the cliff, the ocean spray falling upon the worn stone at his feet. Instead he thought of pastures and fields, deserts and mountains. He thought of Storm’s End, and Winterfell, and Highgarden. Names on a map, for now, but when the time was right... 

“You look the wrong way, brother mine. That is the Narrow Sea. Westeros lies, well, to the west.” 

A woman approached him, her voice cold and fierce, even from what little she spoke. He did not turn to her, yet his stance changed, as he was dragged away from his thoughts. His seclusion was broken, though he had been expecting it. Visenya rarely gave him a moment alone these days, on the brink of the war she so desired. 

“My thoughts do not only lie in Westeros, sister. I think of Valyria, our home, and the cities who once called her their mistress. Volantis, Tyrosh, Pentos, Myr. The Freehold of old... On this eve, I craft one anew, yet the past will not be forgotten. Nor should it be.” 

His voice was that of a warrior, beautiful in a way, but hard, and cold, and unrelenting, as the storm was before him. His face was grim, his handsome features marred by a scowl that would send most children running to their parents. Heavy thoughts weighed upon him. 

“You disturb my peace, Visenya. I ordered against such actions. For what reason would you climb so far to defy me?” 

Visenya took a few steps further, so she was stood beside him. He was a few inches taller than her, but that did not take away from her. She was tall, for a woman, with lean muscle upon her arms and legs. Her chest was flatter than most, but her face had a harsh beauty to it, high cheekbones, and cold eyes, an unforgiving glare that could burn any who it lay upon. She wore battle garb this night, boiled leather over her man’s mail, and Dark Sister, as ever, hanging at her waist. 

“When war comes, peace must always be sacrificed, brother. Our brother has returned from Claw Isle, and he calls for your audience.” 

“Calen could have delivered me such news. It did not need to be you. So, tell me honestly, why did you come here?” 

Her nostrils flared at that. His accusations did not please her, but they were accurate. Visenya was wild and ferocious, driven by ambition and passion, yet she rarely did things for the sheer pleasure of them. She was his wife, true enough, but what they had was not the love that their parents had shared. Aegon wondered if she desired him as much as she desired to be him. 

“I wished to see what it as that my brother did when he came here. I thought it may be more than standing stock still and soaked to the bone.” 

Her hand went for his then, a gutsy move. Their slender finger entwined for a few moments, before he pulled away, turning his head to the left, to look away from her, not wanting to see the hurt upon her face, though instead he felt the burning glare that she gave him next. 

“Not today, Visenya. I cannot.” 

“Then when, Aegon? When you grow tired of our sweet sister? When you remember the vows you swore on the day we were wed? I am your queen-” 

Her tone harshened the more she spoke, the bitterness that she felt coming to the fore, and he still could not look upon her. What sort of man did that make him? The dragon that was scared of the ire of his own wife? He could not be that. 

“You will be my queen, sister. You are not yet a queen, for I am not yet king. Do you see my crown? My throne? My kingdom? I am no king until my rule is forged within fire. Until that day, I cannot call myself such.” 

He turned to her now, spying the tell-tale flare of her nostrils, the tensing to her cheeks that signified that she was trying to restrain some hateful response, but eventually it lessened, and it was she that turned away from him, her anger dissipated. 

“And what king will you be, brother? Unable to choose between your wives? What heir will Rhaenys give you? Some prancing fool, quick of tongue, maybe, but not of steel. I would birth you a warrior, in your image. She would give you a bard, gods forbid.” 

“There will be time for such when my wars are won. For now, let us look to them, and find out whether Orys brings us good news, or ill.” 

She bowed her head, and they walked in silence, both sodden, and simmering, emotions hidden slightly beneath the surface. Visenya was his sister, and he loved her, but theirs was not a gentle passion, but fiery rage. It was easier with Rhaenys, who calmed him, than it was with Visenya, who drove him forward. He did not wish for her to feel hate for him, but what she wanted was things that he could not give her. 

A tension hung over the people of Dragonstone. Many of them lay asleep, yet even they knew that they were on the brink of war, and those who were awake were quiet, cold, and exposed to the storm that blew above them. As Visenya stepped inside the main keep, he looked back, to the clouds, where lightning carved the sky asunder. It looked to him as if flame flew beyond it, a monster that could not be tamed, until he turned away, and stepped inside. 

The Painted Table stood in the middle of the chamber, the war council gathered around it, each of them brooding on their own thoughts, and readied for the arrival of the king. Visenya had taken her place at the head of the table, her palms rested upon the castles of the Wall, whilst their sister, sweet, beautiful Rhaenys, stood opposite her, Dorne splayed before her. To her right stood two men. The first of them was a mountain of a man, broad of shoulder, with jet-black hair, and a mighty beard. At his side, stood a leaner man, still tall, with similar features and hair. By Casterly Rock, in the Westerlands, stood their Maester, Calen, an older man, with grey hair and wrinkles aplenty, in his grey robes. Beside him stood the brothers Goode, leal knights, and capable warriors. They were near identical in appearance, though Griffith, the elder brother, stood an inch taller. They awaited him in silence. He took his place stood between Visenya and their brother, Orys, the hulking man with the dark beard. 

He ran his fingertips along the carved wood, resting them upon the mouth of the Blackwater, before turning to his brother. 

“I am told that you bring me news, Orys. I hope that it is more good than bad. Do you bring me Lord Celtigar’s ships, or nay?” 

Orys was not an unhandsome man, but he lacked the fine charm of his siblings. His cheekbones were lower, and his nose disjointed in two places, whilst he lacked the purple eyes of a Targaryen, instead having pale blue pupils, a more common colour he had inherited from his mother. He spoke with a gruffness, yet he did not sound so common. He has still grown up in the castle, and had been afforded a good education, and that showed. There would be few bastards in the realm given such a prominent position as Orys Baratheon. 

“Our crab lord was reluctant at first, my lord, but a mention of Balerion and Vhagar soon sent him scuttling. His ships are yours, enough to carry a third of your men. It isn’t enough.” 

That was true enough. Lord Celtigar had never been the answer. Claw Isle was remote and hostile, little more than a rocky outcrop off Cracklaw Point. He commanded twenty-five ships, however, and as such was a necessary ally. It was not his military force that made him such. Crispian Celtigar was a merchant lord, wealthy beyond his means, but was no warrior. 

“Three ravens now have flown to Driftmark, my lord. We have not yet received Lord Velaryon’s response to your calls.” 

The maester’s voice was reedy and wavering. Aegon remembered Calen in his prime, a forceful presence, and feared by the children, for he was quick to scold, yet he had been a good mentor, and had served his family well. 

“Velaryon insults you, brother mine. Allow me to take Vhagar and remind him why it is unwise to mock the dragon. None will see to refuse your demands after that.” 

The fire and bloodlust had returned to Visenya, whose eyes sparkled as she spoke of the damage that she could do unto Driftmark. He considered her proposal for a few moments, before thinking it folly. He did not need speak it down, however, for his younger sister spoke next. 

“And what would you do with his ships, sister? Burn his castle and his harbour, but see them preserved? The Velaryons of Driftmark have long been close friends of our family. They knew the freehold, as the Celtigars did, also. When we sail, it will be with them behind us. Let me take Meraxes, and I shall talk our friend Velaryon into supporting you, brother.” 

There was a sparkle to her eyes as she spoke of her dragon, but Meraxes was the youngest of the Targaryens three, and though rideable, much weaker than Balerion or Vhagar. Rhaenys was the shortest of them, too, as her dragon was. She was not short, but she was slight, larger of chest than Visenya, with flowing silvery-gold hair, that fell in waves past her shoulders. Her skin was fair, and pleasant to the touch, and her face radiant. He was lucky to have her as his wife, he often thought, for she was a great beauty. 

“And if talking to Lord Velaryon did not work, I am sure you could find some other way, sweet sister.” 

Rhaenys' nostrils flared at Visenya’s mocking words, though she did not rise to the cruel bait, instead turning her head away, and looking towards Sunspear, the seat of the Princes of Dorne. 

“That is enough, Visenya. Silence would serve you better if such remarks are all you can focus on.” 

Both women held anger now, though neither spoke. One of the Goodes shifted on their feet nervously, Whilst Maester Calen looked down to his papers. It gave Aegon the time to think, and the time to prepare a plan. 

“Visenya will go to Driftmark. Vhagar is bigger, and will get her there faster. There will be no flames and fighting, not unless Velaryon forces your hand. You will speak with him, and win him to our cause.” 

He could feel the restraint that it took for Rhaenys to not remark upon Visenya’s capability to win anyone around to her point of view, but no comment was made. Visenya was unrelenting and forceful, uncomfortable in the world of politics, and more at home in her warmail. Still, Vhagar would provide more of an ominous threat than Meraxes, and few could argue that Visenya lacked for persistence. 

“And what thereafter, brother? To who do we turn our focus?” 

Orys' words were to the point and appreciated. They distracted from the tension that still pervaded the chamber. 

“I have thought on that. The Vale is well protected, fortified by its natural barriers, as is the Stormlands, but both are our immediate foes, with the easiest access to Dragonstone. They must be dealt with swiftly, the both of them.” 

“You intend to split our force, your grace?” 

It was the younger of the Goode brothers that spoke such words, and Aegon nodded to him. 

“If needs be. I would first send out messengers to these kings, offering them the chance of submission, to save us meeting them upon the battlefield. I will not entrust these messages to ravens, but to warriors. Rhaenys will see to this, whilst Visenya prepares for her journey to Driftmark. Another messenger shall be sent to this Hoare king, who calls himself the Black. He has the weakest hold on his kingdom. The Iron Islands have strength at sea, but he is far from the waves of salt, and he will be loved by few of the riverlords. Orys, your brother shall lead that party, with your blessing, of course.” 

The man behind Orys bowed his head at that, and Orys clapped him in a firm embrace, before soon letting go. 

“With luck, Lord Celtigar’s ships will be with us in the fortnight, and Velaryon will join him soon after. Then we can sail, and build our kingdom. Until then, it grows late, and I think sleep is needed now more than anything. Tomorrow will bring much to do.” 

So he left them, the animosity between his two sister-wives simmering under the surface still, but he could not mend that. Visenya hated Rhaenys for he loved her more, in her eyes, at least, whilst Rhaenys hated Visenya for her cruelty and snide remarks. Was that the way of sisters? Was it the way of women? He could not be sure. 

His bed was cold and empty that night, and his dreams uneventful. When he awoke, the storm had passed, a placid tranquillity settling across the island. It was almost as if the night before had never happened, to his eye. The sand was damper than usual, and more driftwood had washed up on the shore, but little else was different, as he stood upon the beach, looking out over the becalmed waves, a mild wind through his hair. He went undisturbed for nearly an hour, for few awoke as early as he, but it did not last. 

“I have been sent to check upon you by your sister, your grace.” 

It was a man’s voice, mild-mannered and temperate, lacking the brusqueness of Orys, or the confidence of the Goodes. Indeed, the man was clearly not a knight when Aegon turned to look upon him. He was thin and wiry, possessing of mousy, brown hair, and deep, brown eyes. He was a handsome youth, true enough, and may have some skill with a sword, if he had been trained, but lacked the muscle of a sworn knight, and wore no armour upon his person, instead preferring a cloak of brown. 

“Which sister? They both seem to feel the need to keep me checked at all times, not allowing me a moment’s peace from them.” 

The man hesitated at that, perhaps lacking the balls to participate in Aegon’s false mocking of his sister’s watchfulness. That was wise. If Visenya were to find out that a commoner had thrown insults towards her... 

“The Princess Rhaenys, your grace. I am one of her men.” 

Aegon cocked his head slightly, wondering at the meaning behind those words. He had heard the rumours, of course, the idle gossip of washerwomen and tavern wenches, but he trusted in his wife’s faithfulness. Still, she surrounded herself with men such as this one, hangers-on who likely lusted after her, for she was a beauty, yet whom she would never take into her bed. That meant this man was like-as-not a singer. He was too handsome for a mummer, and lacked the confidence of a fool. 

“And what is your name, man of Rhaenys?” 

“My mother called me Dareon, your grace, in honour of one of your ancestors, who is mine also.” 

That made sense to him. Dragonstone and Driftmark were littered with such children, remnants of an age when the dragonlords would take the virtue of maids across their islands, and spawn more bastards than legitimate offspring. They were the dragonseeds. Aegon’s own brother was one, so it did not surprise him that this one also possessed some small amount of dragon blood. 

“My ancestors are aplenty. If I were to name each of my children after them then I would need have fifty sons and fifty daughters. Bear his name with honour, Daeron, and if we are truly kin, then you need not call me your grace. Such formalities are not needed between men of the same blood.” 

He saw why Rhaenys had taken this boy in, now. The dragonseeds were the legacies of previous dragons. Their loyalty must be demanded, for many men were ambitious, and would look to use their blood to further their position. Could he be sure that the seeds could be trusted when he and his sister left the island? She was keeping a watchful eye upon this one, surely. 

“If you are the blood of the dragon, then you will have dreamt of flying, Dareon. Have you?” 

The boy hesitated at first, perhaps unsure if Aegon was truly looking for an answer, or maybe worried that it was some sort of test for him, to prove his blood status. 

“Perhaps when I was little, but my father soon beat that out of me. He told me that dragonflight was an honour only for the true dragons, not watered-down bastards like me.” 

“He sounds a cruel man. With hope, you will be a better father to your own boys.” 

“I am no father, your- my lord.” 

Aegon turned his head to the boy, eyeing him up and down. Perhaps he had been harsh before. He possessed some physique, if not much, and he had height, and long arms, too, which would give him range. Maybe he had some skill with a bow, or better yet... 

“Dragons beget dragons, Dareon. I will have need for friends, and for kin soon enough. If you are such, then I will find you a castle for your own, and a wife for your bed, when the morbid work is done, and my wars are ended. The dragon does not forget his friends.” 

Aegon had household knights aplenty, men who had come to the dragonlord’s banners in the hope of winning fame and fortune in the storms that were coming. The brothers Goode had been amongst the first, Duskendale men that had swapped their lord’s banner for anew, but had been followed by Ser Humfrey the Mummer, a man of Lord Massey, sent bearing promises and pacts from Stonedance. Ser Gwayne Baratheon was a trusted knight, the half-brother of Orys, holding no dragonblood himself, but near kin all the same. These were the men that would lead the envoy parties to the Eyrie and Harrenhal. They would prove their loyalty through such tasks, for the dragon demanded undying obedience. 

“You are my sister’s man, Dareon? Then I will make you mine own, also. You hold my blood, so I need not fear placing such tasks upon you. Sail forth, at the head of my party, and deliver my terms to this Storm King. Tell Rhaenys I have tasked you with such, and she will understand. Prove your worth, and there shall be a place by my hearth for you, and further rewards besides. Now leave me to my thoughts. I wish to be alone.” 

And so Dareon did, leaving the king by his lonesome, a single figure upon the beach, looking out over the tranquil water. Yesterday’s storm had passed, that was true enough. Yet a very different storm was only just beginning.


End file.
